


Small Things, Simple Acts

by ZaliaChimera



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Affection, Alcohol, Breakfast in Bed, Developing Relationship, Escape, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Holding Hands, Hugs, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Light Angst, M/M, Post-Episode 159, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recovery, Scotland, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Hatred, Sharing a Bed, Sleepy Cuddles, Stuffed Toys, Trains, Trauma, Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-13
Updated: 2019-11-13
Packaged: 2021-01-30 08:15:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21425056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZaliaChimera/pseuds/ZaliaChimera
Summary: Even after leaving London, Jon and Martin are not free, not really. Maybe they never will be.But for now they can be themselves, and maybe in the end, that's enough.(The obligatory post-159 fic!)
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 126
Kudos: 966





	Small Things, Simple Acts

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, it's the obligatory post-episode 159 fic! \o/
> 
> You have no idea how much time I spent on the website for the Caledonian Sleeper train trying to find out obscure details like exactly what cocktail Martin had (Bonnie Brae: single grain whisky infused with rowan berries and lime,  
enhanced by Vermouth, rhubarb and Peychaud Bitters, finished with a touch of agave, if you're wondering), and agonising over train timetables.

They board the Caledonian Sleeper at Euston and for the first time in weeks, Jon feels like he can breathe. They’ve an hour yet before the train leaves and it’s easy to bury themselves in the bustle of passengers boarding. There’s a pinched line between Martin’s eyebrows when another person jostles him like they just don’t notice that he’s there, but it melts away when Jon catches his hand, and he smiles back at him as they make their way through the carriage to their room.

Jon opens it with their keycard and lets Martin inside first. he stops inside the door and when he turns back to Jon, his mouth is open, his eyes wide and surprised. “There’s a double bed! Oh my god this is amazing.”

“I thought an overnight trip in an actual bed would be more comfortable than in the seats,” Jon says, and he can’t stop his mouth twitching into a smile. “I’ve always wanted to do a sleeper train journey too,” he admits. “It seemed like a good opportunity.”

Sure they’re technically fleeing both the law and far worse things, but he thinks they deserve a little luxury. Time to recoup. Besides, it’s hard to think clearly if you’ve spent ten hours on a train crammed into a seat.

Martin steps aside and lets him into the room. It’s small, obviously, but there is a double bed, and a little sink and Jon watches as Martin opens the door to the shower and shuts it again with a little laugh of sheer glee.

“I thought sleeper trains were just things in fancy historical dramas,” he says when he turns back. His smile is more firmly on his face now, lopsided and beautiful. 

Jon stows their bags and sits down on the bed. It feels incredibly decadent after months sleeping on a tatty camp bed in the tunnels underneath the Archive. “To be fair,” he says, “there’s not that much that takes an overnight trip here. I took a couple of obscenely long bus journeys when I was in America and ugh, I don’t want to do that again.”

His back had hated him even more than usual after that. He was starting to feel fifty, not just look it.

Martin flops down next to him, and bounces a couple of times on the mattress. “I think this is nicer than my actual bed.”

He reaches for the black bag that had been left on the bed and tips it out; toiletries in those fancy little hotel bottles fall out and he pokes through them. 

“You don’t mind that it’s a double?” Jon asks. “I could have got one with bunk beds instead but…” 

Martin turns back to him. “Really? We’ve just spent three days sharing my bed and you’re worried that I’d object?”

Jon shrugs one shoulder, and looks down at his hands curled in his lap. “Necessity doesn’t mean you want to continue. You might be sick of me.”

It seems unlikely, considering how Martin had barely wanted Jon out of his sight, and how fingers twined together on his battered sofa while they watched a film had led to soft kisses, the contact affirming that they were alive, they were together, they’d survived. But interpersonal relationships have never been a stable spot in Jon’s life, constantly undercut with that thread of ‘I’m too strange, too annoying, too vehement, so when will they realise they don’t like me?’.

Martin’s hand comes to rest against his cheek, and nudges his head up so he has to look at Martin. “I honestly can’t think of anything I want to do more at the moment, than share a sleeper train bed with you,” he says. And then he laughs, a breathless sound and leans his forehead against Jon’s. “Christ, Jon, we’re a real pair aren’t we?”

Jon huffs a sound of relief and closes his eyes. “I suppose we are, Martin.”

“Besides,” Martin says, “I hate top bunks. I’ve stayed in youth hostels when visiting places a few times and I’m too old, too fat, and lack the agility to deal with them.”

That makes Jon chuckle, and he leans in to press his lips against Martin’s in a soft kiss. “I never really saw the appeal myself, even as a child.”

Too much chance of waking his grandmother if he was restless during the night, and he hadn’t exactly been a paragon of grace and agility himself.

He pulls away and the soft smile on Martin’s lips, and the faint flush colouring his cheeks is… it’s really nice. He’s getting some colour back too. The first day after they’d got out of the Lonely had been worrying, with how washed out and pale he’d been, like he could fade out of existence at any second.

“Do you want to order some dinner?” he asks, and grabs the menu card to offer it to Martin.

“They have room service?” Martin asks and Jon nods. 

“I saw it on the website when I booked the tickets. Or we could go to the dining car, but I thought you might prefer-“

Solitude. What had happened to Martin was not something easily shaken off. 

Martin flips through the menu, and his lips twist, obviously knowing exactly what Jon was thinking. “I’m not that hungry. But I would like to see the dining car. Get the full experience, y’know?”

There’s a whole world of meaning behind that ‘get the full experience’; because it’s a novelty, because Martin wants to push himself another step away from the Lonely. 

Because Martin saw an old fashioned steam train with compartments when he was seven and thought it looked like the most romantic thing ever but even at that age knew they couldn’t afford it.

Because they might never get another chance.

“Alright,” Jon says. He stands up and offers Martin a hand.

Martin stares at it for a moment before taking it, a smile spreading across his face. He lets Jon pull him up and they slip back out into the corridor and head up towards the dining car.

“I feel like I should be dressed up more,” Martin says ruefully, and glances down at his battered trainers and the soft jeans and hoodie that he’d worn for the journey. “Like I should have a tuxedo or something.”

“It’s not that fancy,” Jon replies, although the idea of Martin in a tuxedo is hardly a bad one.

“I know but… it’s still pretty fancy.”

He can’t really argue with that. It definitely beats the tube, or the commuter trains.

They make it to the dining car, which is quite empty so far with people still embarking, and slide into a booth. They can see the platform through the window. Euston isn’t the prettiest station but there is something charming about the lights in the darkness, and watching people hug and help each other with their luggage. 

It’s less charming that Jon keeps glancing up the platform, looking for signs of Hunters, or Daisy, or the distorted twisted form of the Not-Them.

For a glimpse of Elias- of _Jonah Magnus_ in a pristine suit walking along towards the train.

Martin curls his fingers around Jon’s hand, and gives a gentle squeeze, and Jon lets his fingers unclaw from the tight fists he’d curled them into. “Sorry,” he says. “I just-“

“I know,” Martin says, and casts a nervous look at the platform himself. “It’s not paranoia if people really are out to get you.”

“Quite” Jon agrees. He sighs heavily and pulls out his wallet. “Do you want a drink? Or anything else?” It gives him something to do.

“Oh, uh-“ Martin flips through the menu again, his gaze lingering over the drinks. His gaze lingers on the whiskey cocktails, but there’s a pinched look at the corners of his mouth when he sees the prices. He looks up at Jon and the smile is brittle around the edges. “A coke?”

Jon nods and heads up to the bar at the end of the carriage. He can’t help but skim the room, searching for anyone familiar, but there’s not many people there right now, and no-one sticks out to him.

He orders the drinks; a single malt for him, and one of those cocktails and a can of coke for Martin, and carries the little bottles and glasses back down the carriage to their table.

“Oh, you didn’t have to,” Martin says when Jon places the cocktail bottle down in front of him, but there’s a pleased bit of a flush on his cheeks, and he opens it eagerly enough.

“I was getting one myself,” Jon replies, in lieu of what he really wants to say, which is ‘I want to give you everything’.

“Thanks,” Martin says, and the way he says it makes Jon think that maybe he already knows.

There’s a whistle outside, and then a jolt as the train begins to move, and they start to pull away from the platform. For a second, in the throng of people gathered to say goodbye, Jon thinks he sees- ah, no. No-one. It isn’t as though London has a scarcity of men in suits. And to be fair he’d thought he’d seen Elias in the bread aisle of the Sainsbury’s near Martin’s flat yesterday. He still felt a bit bad about the glare he’d sent the poor man before he realised it wasn’t actually Elias.

Martin turns to watch as they pull out of the station and start to pick up speed. Once the station is out of sight, and there doesn’t seem to be much chance of the train being stopped, he slumps and buries his face in his hands. “Christ…”

“Are you okay?” Jon asks. He leans forward across the table, reaches for him, and then drops his hands back to twist his glass around. Something to do with his hands.

“I thought-“ Martin looks up at him. “I thought someone was going to stop us. Drag us off the train? But we’re out. We really- we’re _out_. For now,” he adds quickly, because they both know that this isn’t really a holiday. This can’t last. 

“For now,” Jon says, lips curling into a crooked smile. 

Martin nods, and takes a sip of his drink. His fingers are curled tightly around the glass. “For a while,” he says softly, “for a while I didn’t think I was going to get out. I didn’t _want_ to get out. I thought- well, I thought that Peter’s plan was a good way to get killed.”

“Oh Martin.” It is a topic they’ve skirted around for the past couple of days; Martin’s clinging to a way to die, and Jon’s lack of care for his own life, the way Martin had locked himself in the bathroom and cried for an hour, and how Jon had scratched his arms bloody and watched the wounds heal.

He takes Martin’s hand in both of his, warms it between them, because he still runs a little colder than he should. He doesn’t know what to say. Feels like he used up all the important words, the valuable ones, in the Lonely bringing Martin back. Not that he regrets that. He thinks it might be the only thing in his life that he doesn’t regret.

Martin makes a choked noise, but he’s smiling too. “S-sorry,” he says. 

“Nothing to apologise for,” Jon says. He takes a breath, holds it for several seconds, and then breathes out. “I didn’t go to Norway intending to die,” he says, although the words feel stilted, like they’re weighted incorrectly on his tongue. “But I just- I thought if I did die, then it wouldn’t be a bad thing. One less monster in the world.”

“And no Jon Sims in the world either,” Martin says. He fixes Jon with a serious look, expression soft and sad.

Jon bites back the words that spring immediately to his lips; that maybe that wouldn’t be so bad. Maybe it might even be better for the world, for Martin. But Martin had made it clear two lunches after the Lonely, with all the weight of the newly exposed steel in his personality, that he didn’t like hearing that from Jon. That he they both needed to be better. So Jon is trying. And if all he can do for now is not disparage himself out loud, then he’ll start with that.

“No,” he says instead, soft and uncertain, “no, I suppose not.”

They lapse into silence like a foggy night, but they don’t let go of each other. 

Jon drains the dregs of his glass. The whiskey is rich and warming and settles like honey in his stomach. It’s been a while since he drank anything except the cheap scotch from the bottom shelf at the supermarket, drunk from a bottle split between Daisy and himself. 

He feels a pang of grief and worry at the thought of Daisy. He’d wanted to go back to the Institute, to search, but everything had been cordoned off and swarming with police, and who knew where Elias was? 

God, he hopes that she’s okay. 

“How’s your cocktail?” he asks, turning his attention to Martin.

“It’s good,” Martin says. “I didn’t think I liked whiskey; more of a cheap wine and fruity cocktails person, but this is nice actually. Feels very… grown up?” he adds with a soft laugh. “It’s ridiculous isn’t it? That I’ve been basically running the Institute for months, and I’ve been working there since I was nineteen, with my own flat and pension and stuff, and it’s a posh drink that makes me feel like an adult.”

“It doesn’t sound ridiculous,” Jon replies. 

“Oh come on,” Martin replies, giving him a sceptical look. “You’ve probably been an adult since you left uni. I remember you on your first day in research. You had a proper suit on and I was there in my jeans and just- I thought ‘this is someone who is an adult’.”

“I have never felt like an actual adult in my life,” Jon says. “Not even before I became Head Archivist.” And he’d never managed to find his equilibrium.

“Yeah, I know that now,” Martin says, “but- it’s just weird. Nice weird, not our sort of weird. Just the normal kind.”

“The best kind of weird these days,” Jon agrees. He sort of misses the days when he’d been worried about having to pay bills, or if his choice of indexing system was the wrong one. The worry about how he’d cope if he had to get a roommate because rent in London certainly wasn’t going down any time soon. That was why he’d ended up clinging to the Archers after all. 

Martin finishes his drink, drains it right down and Jon can see the pink of his tongue run along the inside of the glass and across his lips to catch the last drops. It is… ridiculously endearing honestly. He knows he might have complained about that once, or with anyone else, but right now, with Martin, it’s just sweet.

“It’s a pity that it’s dark really,” Martin says, and glances out of the window. There’s still pinpricks of light as they go past roads and clusters of buildings, but mostly everything is shades of darkness. “I’ve never really taken many trips, and I’d like to see things.”

“That’s sort of the point of taking a night train,” Jon says, “but we’ll take a normal train up to the highlands,” he adds quickly, because he doesn’t mean to sound condescending, at least not now, but it slips out sometimes. “I’ve heard there’s some really pretty scenery on the way up there.”

“Have you ever been before? To Scotland I mean?” 

“I visited Edinburgh once, for a weekend with some people from Oxford.” He can’t quite keep the grimace off his face, and Martin tries and fails to hide a smile at that.

“Not a good trip, I take it?”

“I’m fairly sure I got dragged to every pub and club in Edinburgh, and being surrounded by drunk people who you don’t feel comfortable being drunk around…” He shakes his head. It wasn’t even that he objected to getting drunk, he just hadn’t trusted that particular group not to ditch him somewhere in an unfamiliar city, and, well, he’d had his own run in with the Anglerfish anyway, hadn’t he? “I did visit a couple of museums though. That was nice.”

Martin chews on his bottom lip for a moment, and his fingers tap against the table top. “Can we go and see some things in Edinburgh?” he asks, sounding hesitant. “I know it’s not a holiday. God, we’re practically running for our lives but…” His expression seems very lost, and makes him look young. “Never really travelled anywhere that wasn’t a cheap day ticket on the bus from where I grew up, and a couple of school trips.”

There is a discomfort in knowing that, and in remembering his own many trips as a child and teenager, although in retrospect he’s fairly sure his grandmother encouraged those to get him out of the house. He hadn’t been any more pleasant as a teenager than he had been as a child, and- 

Oh, that’s one of those thoughts again. The ones that he’s trying to not indulge.

And this is a thing he can make better maybe?

“We’re spending a couple of nights in Edinburgh,” Jon points out gently. Basira had suggested that it might be better to split up the journey instead of just taking the train straight up to the safe house. Make it more difficult to track them since there were so many trains leaving Edinburgh every day. “I don’t think we need to spend all our time hiding in our hotel room.” Although he had in fact mostly been intending to spend his time hiding in the hotel room.

Martin’s face lights up, and he’s dazzling, and Jon really wants to kiss him right now. Oh wait, he- he gets to do that now, doesn’t he? 

He leans over and catches Martin’s chin between his fingers and kisses him softly. Martin makes a soft noise of surprise and then kisses back and, god, if nothing else, he hopes he has chance to get used to this.

“Well,” Martin says, and he sounds breathless and awkward and so happy that it makes Jon smile because Martin deserves that, doesn’t he? To be happy. And for some reason he’s decided that Jon makes him happy so… he’s going to do his best. “Do you want anything else from the bar?”

Jon shakes his head. “I think I’m done. You?”

“I’m good,” Martin replies. “We could head back to the room?”

“Of course,” Jon says.

Martin stands up quickly and offers him a hand, and their fingers stay locked together after that as they walk back to their room. They pass a couple of people who nod at them and continue past without a second glance. They’re just two more passengers, utterly normal, and Jon lets himself enjoy the sense of freedom that brings him, even if it’s only temporary.

Jon locks the door behind them once they’re back at the room, and then it’s just them and the quiet sound of the train engine and the tracks.

“I’m going to take a shower,” Martin says. “I want to try the fancy shampoo.”

Jon holds out the bag of toiletries to him. “Of course. I’m just going to-“

He gestures to the bed. Martin nods, and there’s a couple of minutes of awkward manoeuvring around each other in the cramped room while they root through their bags trying to get out Martin’s towel and their pyjamas and why is everything they need packed at the bottom of the bags anyway?

The manage it though, and while Martin showers, Jon undresses and changes into a soft t-shirt and his boxers, and tucks himself into the bed, pressed against the wall where he can feel the soft hum of the train. And then he picks up the book he’d brought with him and reads. 

It’s odd to be reading a book again. An actual novel anyway, not some arcane tome or book of history indelibly tied to the world or fear and awful secrets he’s found himself inhabiting. It’s nothing special as far as books go, just something he’d picked up from Smiths at the train station, and the Jonathan Sims of a few years ago would have turned up his nose at it. But there is a pleasure in the mundanity of it, a pleasure that he savours. 

He’s half nodding off when Martin emerges, already in his own pyjamas; an actual matching set in soft fleece. Martin had said he always got cold at night when Jon had commented.

“Sorry to wake you,” Martin says as he crosses the room. It’s a really small room so it takes all of a second.

“You didn’t,” Jon replies. He carefully marks his page and puts the book away, then pulls back the covers to let Martin slide in next to him.

It’s a little cramped, and there’s a bit of shifting around trying to figure out the best position to sleep in. Finally though, they settle, with Jon’s head resting against Martin’s chest an arm flung around him.

“Is this okay?” Martin whispers, as though switching out the lights has changed the volume they’re allowed to speak at. “Maybe we should have got two singles.”

“It’s fine Martin,” Jon says, and burrows his face more against the softness of Martin’s body. “You’re perfect.”

He hears the hitch of Martin’s breath, and feels the way he relaxes. Martin squeezes him briefly. “Night Jon. See you in the morning.”

“See you in Scotland,” Jon replies, and the huff of Martin’s laughter shakes him.

Neither of them sleeps immediately. They lie awake and silent and together for a while. Eventually Jon feels the easing of Martin’s breath as he drops off. Jon isn’t that far behind; the gentle motion of the train, and the constant hum and click of its movement lulling him into sleep, and into the comforting terror of dreams.

—————

Jon is woken up by a gentle shaking of his shoulder. He opens his eyes slowly, reluctantly, because sleep is still difficult and precious. Martin is leaning over him, his face very close, and the sun through the window haloing him, and god, this might be the most beautiful sight he’s ever seen. He smiles drowsily up at him.

“Jon, are you-“

“Morning, Martin.”

“Oh- morning, Jon.”

He hums softly and curls closer to Martin, mashes his face against Martin’s softness, quite content to fall asleep again, even if the sunlight is a bit distracting.

“Jon,” Martin says, soft and fond.  
“I’m asleep,” he mutters, and he feels Martin’s laugh all the way through him.

“Come on, Jon. They brought us breakfast. I think we’re nearly there.”

Jon huffs, and reluctantly pulls away to let Martin up. it’s a temptation to curl back under the covers and hide away from everything, but Martin is back a minute later. He helps Jon prop himself up and then picks up a tray before sliding back under the covers with him.

“They don’t skimp on the breakfast, do they?” Jon says, eyeing up the contents. 

“We did decide to get a bit of everything,” Martin says. “In case… i don’t know, apparently one drink made us think that Edinburgh was a desolate wasteland and we needed to make this last three days.”

It does indeed seem like the chefs on board have included everything. A full Scottish breakfast, and Jon thinks that’s haggis, and toast and a muffin and-

“I think this is more than I normally eat in a week,” he says as he picks through it. He’s never been a heavy eater, especially not in the morning. He picks at it as much as he can though. It had been a long day yesterday and Martin might have been joking, but who knows what might happen before they can have another decent meal.

Nothing. he really hopes that nothing happens. Just for a few days, let them have peace and rest.

The train starts to slow down just as they’re getting dressed, and through the window they can see glimpses of Edinburgh. Martin lingers by the window to watch as they pull into the station. Any closer and he’d have his face pressed against the glass.

Jon finishes pulling on his trousers and wraps an arm around him from behind, then leans in to kiss the back of his neck. Martin shivers against him, and Jon can see his smile in his reflection.

—————

Edinburgh Waverly station is huge, and labyrinthine, and especially crowded at a bit past 8am on a weekday morning. 

“I used to be fine with commuter trains,” Martin mutters as they weave their way through the crowds trying to find the left luggage shop.

Someone bumps into them, with just a muttered and barely audible apology. Martin’s shoulders hunch, and he flinches away, and Jon can see the tightness of his expression. He swears for a second that he can see his breath fogging and starting to curl around him, and is that a little translucence around the edges of him? A grey tinge seeping across his skin?

“Martin,” Jon says, and grabs his hand, and twines their fingers together.

Martin looks over at him, very pale, lips pinched. They stand there for a minute, Martin’s gaze fixed on him, searching his face, and Jon lets Martin See him. 

The shadows fade slowly from Martin’s face, that terrible tension easing, and he squeezes Jon’s fingers.

“Sorry,” Martin says, almost too quiet to be heard.

Jon shakes his head. “Nothing to apologise for. Should have thought that it might be a bad time to arrive.”

“Could-“ Martin squeezes his eyes shut, and takes a deep breath, in and out. “Could we sit down for a bit? Just until the crowds die down?”

“Of course,” Jon says. He scans the area quickly, and spots a cafe that has free tables. At least with commuter crowds, they don’t tend to want to sit down. “Over here.”

He doesn’t let go of Martin’s hand as they walk over and claim a table. There’s one of those little fences around the area too, which is a nice barrier between them and the rest of the crowds. “Do you want a drink?”

Martin bites his lip and nods. “Tea?”

Jon smiles. “Of course. I’m going to go and get that. Keep watching me if you need to.”

Martin’s gaze on the back of his neck is definitely a lot more pleasant than the things usually staring at him after all. “Thanks, Jon.”

“Of course,” Jon replies. “After everything, I’d hate to be defeated by the train station.” Not when they’re so close to freedom. Tenuous freedom, sure, but it’s still more than they’ve had in years.

The laugh that Martin gives is watery but genuine. “It would be pretty embarrassing. God. Now I have to be fine.”

Something about the way he says it makes Jon frown, an ache growing in his chest. Guilt maybe, for all the times he assumed that Martin would always be there, be a constant, be _fine_, when Jon hadn’t returned that constancy. He touches Martin’s cheek gently, and Martin looks up at him, that pretty flush curling up his neck at the intimate gesture.

“You don’t have to be fine,” Jon says solemnly. “You just need to be Martin.”

Martin stares at him, his eyes wide, and for a second Jon thinks that he might cry. The thought paralyses him; he doesn’t know what to do with crying, doesn’t know anything about comfort, and that’s something he’s going to need to work on. 

“Yeah,” Martin says, a rush of breath, and he touches Jon’s hand against his cheek. “It’s true for you too, you know? You don’t need to be okay. You can just be Jon with me.”

A different sort of paralysis overcomes him then, the kind that makes his chest seize up, and heat prick his face, and makes words and cleverness die on his tongue. He gathers himself to give a short nod. “Drinks.”

That’s safer. It gives him a moment to gather himself. He glances back at Martin once he’s in the queue, and smiles when he finds Martin is actually watching him. Martin smiles back. It makes his stomach flutter pleasantly and he knows that he’s got a stupidly fond expression on his face by the time he gets to the front of the queue and can order their drinks.

Martin looks to have perked up by the time that Jon places the tray in front of him with a pot of tea and sugar packets. Martin mumbles his thanks and sets about doctoring his tea, while Jon checks their hotel booking, and sips at the hot chocolate that he’d decided on. It’s got marshmallows in it. it’s a frivolous indulgence that he wouldn’t have bothered with not that long ago, too worried that his choice of drink would reflect on his work. 

God, those days when being seen as mature, as a real _adult_ seem so far away now, and very stupid. He sort of misses them, he thinks? Or maybe he just misses the absence of fear, because he can’t remember actually enjoying himself then either. In any case, hot chocolate with marshmallows it is, and the warmth that seeps into his fingers is very pleasant.

“Feeling better?” he asks when he’s nearly finished his drink.

“Much,” Martin replies, and he does look better, more colour in his face, less of that horrible grey pallor. “It’s been ages since I’ve been around that many people,” he admits. “I wasn’t even going home much at the end. Just fell asleep on the sofa in Peter’s- Elias’? In the office.” He’s clutching the mug like he’s afraid it might vanish. “When I actually slept anyway. I don’t remember a lot of the time. It moved funny.”

“Probably the Lonely,” Jon says. Martin hums in agreement and finishes off his tea. He stands up quickly, a serious expression on his face. “Right. We were going to drop our bags off.”

“Yes. We can check in at three, but I thought we could wander around for a while before then. See the sights.”“Sounds good,” Martin agrees. 

There is determination in the set of his shoulders, and the firm line of his lips as they step out of the relative safety of the cafe and back into the bustle of Waverly station. It’s quietened down a little, most of the commuters well on their way to wherever they worked, but it’s not the sort of place that is ever quiet, except when it’s closed. Martin walks like he has somewhere to be, tension holding his shoulders taut, and his gaze is fixed straight ahead. 

Jon stays close to Martin as they make their way to left luggage, and looks at anyone who seems like they might get too close. He can be a little disconcerting when he looks at people these days, or maybe some of them can sense that there’s something off about him. Something less than human, a predator in their midst.

He ducks his head and swallows down a sour taste in his throat. No, they’re not doing that here. He’s not doing that. 

They reach the left luggage counter, and Jon books their bags in for the day. It’s nice to drop them off, leaving just his satchel and Martin’s rucksack. Sort of freeing. It feels like he could just pick a direction and set off walking, and keep going until no-one could ever find him. It’s ridiculous of course; he’s hardly in peak physical condition, and he’s sure that Elias- that Jonah Magnus, would still be able to find him. But it’s a nice thought nonetheless. And he does feel better for being away from the Institute.

When he finishes paying and turns around, Martin is gone. lead and ice settle into his stomach, a choking panic rises in his windpipe, and a vice closes around his chest. Where is Martin? Where is he?

Oh, god, has someone taken him? Have they made it all the way here, through everything, for him to be snatched now by an unknown enemy?

Has he let that fog rise over him once more and slipped into the Lonely for good? Jon wouldn’t blame him. It had probably been safer there, and maybe Jon had pushes too much, too quickly and made Martin panic.

Or maybe, that nasty little part of his brain whispers to him, in a voice that shifts between voices he knows — Elias, Tim, Peter — maybe Martin had just realised that Jon wasn’t worth it.

He leans against the wall nearby, and drags his hands through his hair to try to regain some sort of equilibrium. No, he’s fine. He’s over reacting. God, he shouldn’t be acting like this. He just needs to needs to breathe. He needs to See.

“Jon?” The sound of his name cuts through the haze growing around him. He opens his eyes — he doesn’t remember closing them — and Martin is there, concern writ large across his face. “God, Jon are you okay?”

“Oh god, Martin.” He lets out a breathy laugh and drags Martin into a hug, presses his face against Martin’s shoulder and breathes him. “I thought- it doesn’t matter. You’re here.”

“I’m here,” Martin repeats, and he raises his hands to curl around Jon, holding him tightly. “Sorry, I just- I saw something.”

“Something bad?” Jon asks warily.

“No. Nothing bad.” Martin steps away and looks him over. Being watched by Martin eases his breath, shores up the baseline of calm that he’s slowly been building. “Are you feeling better?”

“Yes. I- sorry, I overreacted.” Stupid. Panicking like a clingy child and- No. No he isn’t thinking like that. He is working at getting better.

“Guess neither of us is that okay really,” Martin says, with a rueful smile on his lips.

“No. I suppose not,” Jon agrees. “What did you see?”

Martin glances back over his shoulder at one of the shops, and then quickly back to Jon, a wistful look on his face. “Nothing,” he says, voice going a bit squeaky. “Just- it’s silly.”

“It can’t be that silly,” Jon says. “Show me?” If it is something that could be dangerous, he needs to know, and if it isn’t anything dangerous, but still enough to draw Martin’s attention, then he wants to know. 

Martin drops his gaze, shifts his weight from foot to foot. There’s a flush creeping up the back of his neck beneath his curls. “You’ll laugh.”

“I promise I won’t,” Jon says, utterly serious. 

“Fine,” Martin says. He laces his fingers with Jon’s and heads over towards the shop that he’d looked at earlier.

It’s a toy shop, something selling souvenirs for fretting children and adults inclined to the whimsical. In the window is a display of stuffed animals. A lot of them are wearing tartan; scarves and kilts and those flat hats with the bobble on them. Jon thinks one of the toys is supposed to be Nessie, despite Edinburgh being about a hundred and fifty miles away from Loch Ness. One of the toys, the one that seems to have grabbed Martin’s attention, is a large, fluffy highland cow toy with large liquid brown eyes. Martin stares at it, and then looks sharply away.

“See, I told you it was stupid,” he says, and there is a vicious note in his voice, something harsh, and angry. “It’s just a trashy souvenir.”

Jon recognises that tone immediately. It’s the same voice in his head, that tells him how stupid he is, how awkward, how everyone is judging him when he doesn’t pick up on jokes or social cues that everyone else seems to know without thinking. The nasty voice that reminds him that he’d made his grandmother’s life miserable, and that it’s his fault everyone he’d known in university had fallen away with time.

“It’s not stupid,” he says, with a vehemence that surprises even him. For a second he Knows that time when Martin was eight and had already learned to bite down his desire for toys or sweets, and he Knows the hurt of a school trip, being the only child not able to buy something in the gift shop, because the trip itself was already a product of charity. “It isn’t stupid to want something nice. Come on.”

He tugs at Martin’s hand and all but drags him into the shop. Martin trots after him, and when Jon glances back, his eyes are very wide. He marches over to the display and plucks the cow toy off it and tucks it under his arm. He sets it down firmly onto the cash desk. The woman behind the counter looks between them, and smiles. “Is this a gift?”

“Yes,” Jon says after a second.

She nods and ties a length of red velvet ribbon around the cow’s neck while Jon pays, finishing it off with a large bow. “There you go. Enjoy your day.”

Jon murmurs his thanks, and manages a tight smile. Then his attention is drawn back to Martin who is staring at him as though he’s grown an extra head. 

He holds out the stuffed toy towards Martin. “Here. It’s for you.”

For anyone else, that might just be the worst attempt at being romantic ever, but considering Jon had asked Martin to run away with him so they could gouge out their eyes together, he thinks it’s a step up really.

Martin’s expression is open and vulnerable as he reaches out to take the stuffed toy with its ridiculous ribbon. He looks it over for a minute, fingers sinking into its silky fur, and then he clutches it to his chest. “God, Jon, you didn’t have to.”

“I wanted to,” Jon replies. There are a lot of things that Jon can’t give him, like safety or a normal life. But he can absolutely get him a stuffed toy just because he looks like he wants it.

Martin buries his face against the toy, and Jon can see his shoulders shake, but when he looks up, he’s smiling, even if his eyes are a bit red. “Thank you,” he says. “I love you, you know?”

The words spring warmth in Jon’s chest, and he Knows that too. Knows the truth of it in a way that is for once, not supernatural at all.

“I love you too, Martin,” he says, and means every word.

“God, we’re making a real scene,” Martin says, and it’s true, the lady at the cash desk is watching them, smiling still, and a couple of customers are studiously ignoring him.

“We should go. There’s a writer’s museum,” he says. “If you want to go.”

They head out of the station, the stuffed toy still clutched in Martin’s arms, and head out into the crisp Edinburgh air.

It’s where it all began really, isn’t it? Jon thinks as they begin walking, pointing out glorious architecture and cute dogs with equal excitement. Edinburgh. The Anglerfish. That first statement that had trapped him as the Archivist. 

And maybe things will still end badly. They’re not free. But right now, on a cold October morning, and right here, next to Martin, their shoulders touching, right now, they can just be Jon and Martin, and maybe that’s enough.

**Author's Note:**

> You can follow me on [Tumblr](https://zalia.tumblr.com)!


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